Absence of Touch
by ernestine
Summary: A Gryffindor must hide her affections for a Slytherin...


He was perfect in every subtle, misshapen way. He would curl his boney frame against the rough, crumbling grit of a tree trunk, and I would watch him. He would open dusty potion books, shaking the dark hair out of his eyes, and I would ponder the delicious tasted of his forbidden fruit. He would brush past me, his sallow body twisted like a shy old willow, and I would catalogue the moment in my mind, burning the moment into my memory.  
  
My friends never knew that as we walked along the lake between classes, discussing homework and heartthrobs, the corners of my meticulously trained eyes were ever vigilant, searching out the form of my dark secret. They had no idea that the mention of his name-tumbling so sleekly off the tongue- made my insides quiver. Nobody ever noticed the way my eyelids flickered in ecstasy when he would drop his quill with a soft scrape on the cold dungeon floor. But he knew. He had long known what it was like to covet. He had often watched out of the corner of his eye for the glint of golden red hair, sighing with orgasmic reverie as he caught the perfume on the wind. He had often imagined the bliss of being worthy- of being beautiful enough, brave enough, and pure enough- to confront his gentle tormentor. The confession came in the form of entangled emotions and flailing appendages. There were no words at first, just the rusty tattle of the closet hinges as he shut us away from the rest of the darkened, secluded school. His eyes seared mine, and I could look nowhere but his ocean-storm gaze. The air was torpid between us; it was so hot and thick that we could feel each other through it. My body ached as I was devoured by his stare, my mind moaned as he spoke. His raspy voice came in waves of tangled whispers. We decided to keep it a secret. "What would they say about the peculiar match?" he mused, "the quiet, raging Slytherin and the charismatic, vivacious Gryffindor! 'The greasy little bookworm has fallen for a Pure-Blood!'" He made me blush with his reference to my ancestry. I had never valued myself as a Pure-Blood, and had worked hard to earn my own name. He took my trembling hands in his large, brittle ones. "It would be better for you not to get wrapped up in the snide jokes. We should keep this quiet for a while." I started to protest, not caring about remarks or glares from the others; not caring about any thing but the man next to me, but sensing my argument, he put a finger to my lips and encouraged, "Distance must not be ignored. It must be welcomed as you embrace a lover." We learned to relish the absence of touch, choosing to feel each other through other means. I swallowed him and carried him with me always. He would meet my gaze as we crossed each other in the halls, turning the air between us dense and humid. I would pass him root of asphodel in class and his thoughts would tickle my flesh. From across the school grounds, he would turn the dull frost on the barren trees into tendrils of lace for me, creating breathtaking beauty where there had been only a grotesque nakedness. The cold cobalt clouds glistened in momentary glory at his command. We developed senses through one another, tasting, hearing, feeling what others couldn't. He promised loyalty and devotion; we planned to elope as soon as school was through. We worshipped each other and lived for our next entanglement in the cramped storeroom. Those idyllic moments were stolen as often as we could get away with; we were gluttonous and guilty and mad for each other's company. I told him things I hadn't told my self, letting the anxiety roll off of my shoulders and out of my mind. He was always thoughtful and polite, listening with concentration, encouraging me when I should have been encouraging him. I learned things I had never imagined from him; things I didn't know were possible. He didn't talk of his parents often, and I didn't push the subject. He had scars on his pale skin but underneath as well. I tried to heal the torn parts of him, I tried to sew shut the open sores of living with a stone father and a dead mother. I tried as hard at healing him as he tried to get his father to notice the good in him. I never quite soothed the chapped chasms, and he never quite managed to get his father to see past his flaws. 


End file.
